


Morning Coffee

by greysynonyms



Series: Detroit: Become Human Songfics [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Androids, Anxiety, Because it's Hank, Depression, Dpd, Explicit Language, Exposition, F/M, Heavy Drinking, Mental Health Issues, Pining, Scars, Slice of Life, hints of trauma, pre-deviant connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-06-01 00:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15131312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greysynonyms/pseuds/greysynonyms
Summary: Because Hank Anderson needs his morning coffee, and you're the only one who knows how to make it right.





	Morning Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> “Fixation or psychosis? Devoted to neurosis now”

       People have always described you as a bit of a whirlwind, so it’s not really too much of a surprise when you slam open the doors to the police station on a particularly cold winter afternoon with a box of doughnuts and two cups of coffee balanced in one of your arms. No, it doesn’t really surprise anyone because it’s very typical of your usual behavior--what _does_ surprise your fellow officers is the fact you’re at the station at all.

       “Well, well, well, look who’s finally back,” a snide voice remarks.

       “Gavin,” you say, feigning fondness. “ _So_ good to see you again.”

       The moody detective is leaning against a nearby wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, smug smirk in place on his lips. “Wasn’t sure you were ever gonna come back.”

       “Believe it or not,” you say, shaking the snow out of your hair, “recovering from a collapsed lung and physical therapy sessions for a wounded arm takes quite some time.” You look up at him again, eyes mischievous, “I really appreciate your concern though.” As you turn to head further into the station, you hear Gavin scoff behind you.

       “Well good luck taking your spot back!” he calls after you. “Good ol’ Hank got a new friend that he’s attached at the fuckin’ hip with!” Then lower, like it's supposed to be under his breath but of course it’s still loud enough for everyone to hear because it’s Gavin: “Fucking plastic prick.”

       Your brow furrows but you ignore his taunting, chalking it up to simply Gavin being Gavin. To your surprise, however, you find the desk across from Hank’s--the desk where you previously sat before the accident--is, in fact, occupied. You approach anyway and place the doughnuts and coffee down at Hank’s desk, just on the side of too noisy in order to not-so-subtly grab the...wait, is that an android? You eye the standard uniform he’s wearing, the vibrant blue band around his arm, the pretty, blue LED ring at the side of the young man’s temple; you watch as the ring flickers a few times when he looks up from the terminal and his chocolate eyes meet yours.

       “Detective (L/N),” he speaks, clear and concise. “My apologies, I was unaware that your return was scheduled for today.”

       He moves as if to stand and you hold out a hand to stop him, instead plopping yourself down into Hank’s chair and resting your elbows on his desk. You take a short swig of your coffee and then clear your throat. “I wasn’t scheduled to return at all, actually,” you tell him, and then watch the way his eyebrows pinch in the middle in what looks like confusion. You smile. “I guess it’s a surprise. They told me that I might never return to the force after--”

       “After you were shot,” he supplies, and there’s something innocent and childish in his voice, like he’s proud that he knows what you’re talking about without you having to tell him.

       Your smile vanishes, because you’re sure now that he has scanned you, analyzed you, knows about you and your accident without you having to tell him anything and it makes you uncomfortable. “Yeah,” you nod simply, returning to your coffee. You notice the shift in his expression out of the corner of your eye and you feel just a little bad--you know that it’s just what androids do, even if it might feel like an invasion of privacy to you. “So what’s your name?” you ask in an attempt to lighten the mood a little.

       “My name is Connor, I’m an android sent by Cyberlife to assist Lieutenant Anderson.”

       “So they stuck you with Hank, huh?” you chuckle. “I’m sure the two of you are getting along swimmingly.”

       Connor’s LED flickers again, momentarily confused as to why a detective like yourself would refer to the lieutenant so casually, but then he remembers the photo pinned to Lieutenant Anderson’s cork-board beside all the certificates of decoration--a photo of him with a young girl at a bar, both flushed drunk and smiling widely. The face in the photo matches yours and he concludes with 95% certainty that you must be closer with the lieutenant than he first analyzed.

       “Hey, I’m the one that got stuck with him, ya hear?” a gruff voice mutters tiredly, and then your chair is spun around with a suddenness you aren’t expecting, causing you to yelp. Hank leans forward, borderline too close, definitely close enough for you to smell the whiskey on his breath, pins you to his chair by placing his hands firmly on either armrest, and grins lazily at you. “Who let the brat back in?” he questions, rhetorical, only for your ears.

       “She simply allowed herself into the building, lieutenant,” Connor answers anyway. “Was something supposed to prevent her from entering?”

       “Connor,” Hank sighs, “shut the fuck up for just two seconds, would ya’?” There’s a very brief pause before the android opens his mouth to speak again, but Hank cuts him off by holding up a hand. “Jesus Christ, did you actually just wait two fuckin’ seconds before opening your mouth again? Make yourself useful and go over the case again or something.”

       “Very well,” Connor nods his agreement before returning his gaze to the terminal.

       “I knew it, the two of you are best friends already,” you tease. “Wasn’t even gone for that long and I’ve already been replaced.” You make an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak when a rough hand snags your arm and Hank pulls you to your feet easily (you always forget how strong he actually is, despite his appearance), then hugs you, unabashed, in front of the entire department; some people actually cheer and your face blooms with heat.       

       Hank sets you back on your feet and clears his throat, reaches up to card his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture that you’ve grown more than familiar with over the years. “Glad to have you back, detective,” he mumbles.

       “Aw, Hank, did you really miss me that much?” you bat your eyelashes at him, speak in an overly-cutesy tone, and you actively ignore the way your heart stutters a little bit in your chest at the notion.

       “Missed having someone bring me all this shit when I’m hungover, yeah,” he replies, sitting down heavily in his chair and opening the box of doughnuts you brought. He takes a large bite out of one covered in white, powdery sugar and you fail at suppressing a giggle when it gets all over his beard and blends seamlessly with the white hairs already there.

       “How did I know you were late to work because you were too busy drinking yourself into a coma last night?” you ask, sitting down on his desk and grinning down at him. “You should have some of this,” you push the coffee cup with Hank’s name scrawled across it in perfect barista writing towards him. “Little hair of the dog won’t hurt.”

       Hank cocks a brow, the corner of his mouth turning up in a little smirk. “Maybe I did miss you after all,” he says, lifting the cup and taking a long sip. He relaxes a little further into his chair, “It’s almost like you know me or somethin’.”

       “Almost,” you laugh. Because, yeah, you do know him--you’re very nearly intimately familiar with Hank Anderson and all of the interesting quirks of his haggard personality. You were lucky enough--even though it felt unlucky at the time--to be partnered with him right out of the academy. You remember the first time you met him, how immediately after introducing yourself to him as his new partner-in-training he stormed into Captain Fowler’s office and demanded that you be paired with someone else. You’re still not sure if Fowler actually saw potential in you or if he just loves infuriating poor Hank (your eyes flick to the android currently studying information on the terminal of your old desk and, yeah, he just loves infuriating Hank), but he had insisted that the lieutenant take you under his wing.

       You were young and fresh-faced at the time; naïve, straight out of the academy with flying colors and not at all prepared for the real world. You learned very quickly by Hank’s side that the world is full of hatred and injustice, cruel and unfair; it quickly hardened your edges, and even quicker turned you towards the bar alongside Hank almost every night. The memories of those nights, of the things you saw, of the deaths you witnessed, of the weight of your gun in your hand, stir up feelings you thought you had long buried--feelings that haunted you on so many nights after Hank had gone to bed or dropped you off at home, of sitting on the floor with your head in your hands while you sobered up, sobbing uncontrollably because of the guilt and pain and sadness that seemed to plague you constantly.

       Sometimes the job was difficult, you knew going into it that it would be, you just weren’t prepared for exactly _how_ difficult.

       However, it also taught you how good it feels to do good and to be trusted so deeply by another person. You love your job--you’re utterly passionate about it, about doing right in a world full of wrong. Long evenings at the bar with Hank turned into long nights at the bar and even longer nights when Hank had to help you into a car and let you crash on his living-room couch; those nights were typically filled with long conversations, sometimes about nothing and sometimes about deep, deep secrets and matters that neither of you ever really spoke to anyone else about. Some nights, you felt as though he was the only person anchoring you to the world--for that, you were in his debt.

       It was easy, natural to grow as close to Hank as you had over several years of cases, close-calls, high-strung emotions, and bar trips. And that’s what made it so hard after your accident, when he was so busy with work that he hadn’t even been able to visit you at the hospital, and you had been placed on such strict restrictions that you weren’t allowed anywhere near the station.

       God, you missed him.

       “Hey,” a warm hand lands on your knee and squeezes. “Get outta that head of yours before you start steaming at the ears, kid.”

       You allow the corners of your mouth to turn up in a smile as you meet warm blue eyes looking up at you with concern. “It’s almost like you know me or something,” you mimic him, subconsciously reaching up and rubbing the scars on your arm that are currently hidden beneath the fabric of your shirt.

       Hank’s eyes follow the movement closely, and then the concern in his gaze doubles. “You okay?” he asks lowly. “You need pain meds or somethin’? You need to go back home?”

       You shake your head, “I’m here because I want to get back to work, Hank. I’m not going anywhere.” At the less-than-pleased look he gives you, you scoff. “Look, stop treating me like I’m a little kid. I’ve taken my time recovering and I’m ready to get back in the field. If I can come back from that injury, there’s no way I’m dying out there. I’m too young for that, and, besides, you’ve got my back, right?”

       Hank seems to mull over his thoughts for a moment before he rolls his eyes, removes his hand from your leg and turns towards the case-file waiting for him on his desk. “You know I do. Always will.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Based on "Far Too Young to Die" by Panic! at the Disco. 
> 
> It's going to become super obvious real soon that I have been listening to Panic! non-stop recently, but hey, it's giving me inspiration so I'm rolling with it! This was just a little introductory scene I wanted to do, but the rest of the snippets I've been writing aren't in any sort of chronological order. I thought that instead of writing one long story I'd try writing the scenes as they come to me and see if that helps with writer's block, and it's been working so far!
> 
> Anyway, later chapters will be much more heavily focused on the relationship between the reader and the goofballs who have consumed my life. I love them so much. I'm trash, and I'm not sorry.


End file.
